Form and Function
by Shelomit
Summary: A brief contemplation of the SSD Executor and the reactions she evokes in those who serve on her: she represents a flawless marriage of form and function, in which elegance serves only to suggest an attendant deadliness.


_Form/Function.  
_

There was a reason why her servants called her 'Lady.' It was scarcely in deference to some ancient lineage, for she was then the first and last of her line—an aberration in some respects, but of the sort that inspires grandeur, like a single monolith gracing endless plains. It was not to honor her achievements, for she was still young and her considerable attainments might yet prove flukes. Nor was it even wholly out of respect, despite the widely-accepted wisdom that ladies respond best when coddled and the self-evident inadvisability of provoking her wroth.

Her nobility lay in her stylishness. Though she could not boast a slender figure, the elegance was undeniable. True as an arrow at her edges, dissolving into filigree at the center, she was the death-grey jewel for Kuat's crown. She diffused a cool cerulean glow into her native element of endless vacuum. Sleek lines suggested a dagger effortlessly piercing space to strike home in its very heart.

Such grace would have been a virtue, if a superficial one, under any circumstances; it was all the more admirable in that it complemented a consummate lethality. To those who knew her best, the Lady _Ex _represented a flawless marriage of form and function, in which each was precisely indicative of the other. Her silhouette was simplicity itself, a reflection of the efficiency of her inner workings and the economy of motion with which she sailed. Much of the filigree was a knot of turrets, the only adornment her deadliness demanded. And the resemblance to a dagger-tip, to an arrowhead, was anything but incidental.

Like all noblewomen, she attracted a coterie. Her fighters buzzed about her like gnats worrying a thoroughbred. In her wake trailed a half-dozen dreadnoughts each a fraction of her size, the remainder of Death Squadron. If the TIEs were insects, then these were dogs waiting attentively at her feet, there only to catch the crumbs of battle.

She was exactly what she had to be, as her name claimed. _Executor: _that which gets the job done. The same name served to tacitly suggest, through the slightest aberration in spelling, that the job in question was most likely slaughter.

When taking into account her beauty and venom, Lady _Ex _was a surprisingly kind mistress. Her intricate mechanisms might have required constant attention, but that was hardly a chore; no craftsman the hither side of the Rim could help but be seduced by her workings. They kept her happy and she kept them alive. Generous to those who loved her, she was a city in the skies, and 280,734 souls—not counting the Army men, of course—called her home.

Lady _Ex _had a tendency to polarize. Her captain, for instance, cherished her in spite of his better judgment. He was nagged by suspicions that her sheer bulk, effective psychological weapon though it was, might prove an inconvenience—that hubris would spell her downfall in the end. Yet he had to admit that she hid more than her fair share of surprises, and their mutual trust slowly grew. She treated him well and he returned the favor, typically through begrudging pride but sometimes with a discreet pat on one of her bulkheads and whispered "At-a girl."

Her admiral, on the other hand, learned to loathe her as a symbol of dashed hopes. This is not to suggest that his hopes had ever been particularly vaunting; he was merely after acclaim, a massive salary, and fuel for his pride. Learning that he was only a figurehead should have been scarcely surprising, but he managed to be outraged. In such a context the power of his nominal flagship only served to rankle. It lay at his fingertips, but he did not command it; because of that, he resented her.

(For her part, Lady _Ex_ had sufficient respect for military virtue to deliver on the other two counts. This was despite the fact that she had never cared for the man.)

To her true commander she was, when in top form, a joy. If the _Ex_ sliced through hyperspace with an exceptional smoothness, if she performed some intricate maneuver without the least hitch in her artificial gravity, if her engines took a thrashing but purred on faithfully nonetheless—such displays of elegant deadliness marked a sort of holiday for him. It would be one of those rare days when it was almost sweet to be alive.

_..._

_finis ef 7.2.2013_

(The_ Star Wars_ franchise, as I am only too painfully aware, is not mine. Criticism is welcomed.)


End file.
